


This Precious Voice

by ServantOfMischief



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Clinging to a part of themself, Crowley being scared, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Singing, Song - Freeform, aziraphale - Freeform, crowley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-04 00:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ServantOfMischief/pseuds/ServantOfMischief
Summary: His voice is all he has left, something She didn't take from himI do not consent to my work being reposted, or used in any unofficial apps like Fanfic Pocket Archive Library (Unofficial) or the like!





	1. Eden

**Author's Note:**

> I do not consent to my work being reposted, or used in any unofficial apps like Fanfic Pocket Archive Library (Unofficial) or the like!

Everyone knows, or at least presume, that angels have the most beautiful voice and sings with a perfect pitch. That’s why everyone praises celestial harmonies and believe them to be the most beautiful sound to ever be heard. Everyone also presumes that demons cannot sing, at least not beautifully, because what is beautiful about a demon? Most people will say “nothing”, because what do demons do but tempt and encourage humans to sin and commit evil? There’s nothing beautiful in that, and demons are twisted and ugly beasts. They cannot bring about anything beautiful, certainly not sing beautifully.

Crawly proves humans wrong on both accounts. First off, he isn’t twisted and ugly and beastly, with the exception of his snake-form, that one is certainly beastly, but it is neither twisted nor ugly. And his voice is not a horror to hear either. It is one of the reasons he is above amongst the humans. Because he will have an easier time blending in, because he is not twisted and ugly (on the outside), and because his voice is sin in itself. It’s low rumble, it’s slight hiss, can make anyone turn and fall to sin if he truly wishes for it, and Adam and Eve are the proof of it. He prides himself on many things about himself, but the one thing he is the proudest of, a tiny part of him that he keeps hidden from Hell, and even from the angel on Earth with him, is his singing. He mainly keeps it hidden from the angel because said creature has made it abundantly clear that while he isn’t so disillusioned that he believes there is perfection in the voices of Heaven, he doesn’t think there’s any beauty in Hell either. Well, the angel isn’t entirely wrong, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.

So he sings only to himself. It is some sort of comfort, really, because while he has managed to wriggle himself out of Hell and caused the humans to take the apple, it doesn’t change the fact that he is utterly alone up here on Earth. So, the night after Adam and Eve leaves the garden, after the angel left him alone on top of the wall of the garden Eden and the sun has gone down, and the night grows _cold_, Crawly sits atop the wall and sings a hymn he knew before his Fall, one of the few he knows, and he pushes through the burning he feels on his tongue because of the holiness of the hymn, and sings until the end of night, until the sun makes itself known again as it rises over the horizon. By that time, he’s coughing quietly, both by pain and the slight smoke rising from his burned tongue, and he slips down into the garden, finds water and carefully sips on it to soothe the burns. It doesn’t work too well, but it’s better than nothing.

He doesn’t regret singing quietly for himself, even if he is too Damned to feel anything but pain from the songs. Perhaps that is why he sings too? To remember who he was, what he was, and to never, ever forget that he Fell. Asking questions… He’s learned who to question and when, though it is a harsh punishment he endured for a lesson learned. But here, here it will be safe, won’t it? He’s already a Fallen, a demon, as the angel was rather quick to point out. Here on Earth, for everything that will happen, it will be okay to question a few things, won’t it? Nothing about the grander scheme of things, but a little bit about the small things. That is what Crawly will do. What else can God do to him now?

The Serpent of Eden, as he will be known as much later on, leaves the garden of Eden two days after the two first humans did, when his tongue feels better and he can articulate words again without feeling a searing heat in his mouth, and wanders the world, so empty and lonely, waiting for the two humans to become many. It takes a great deal many years before he encounters the angel or any humans again. Without anyone to talk to, he worries for a moment that his voice will fade, sound rugged and raspy, out of tune, so he talks to himself, alone in the deserts, just to work his chords. His voice is part of him, and he doesn’t worry that it will be terrible in his true form, but he is not so sure within this corporation of his, and it is far too new, not used enough for him to be absolutely certain that it will not fade, another part of him lost.

Centuries later Crawly will realize that his voice will never fade unless he wills it so, just like his corporation will not grow too thin if he doesn’t eat, or obese if he overeats, or his organs take any damage no matter how much he abuses them as long as he wills them alright later.

But right then and there, in the first years, decades, centuries on Earth, he worries.


	2. Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because what else can he do for them?

If he had any tears left in his body, Crawly would have wept. Because truly, having witnessed humans being swept away by the raging waters of the Great Flood God has sent their way, to drown everybody but Noah and his family safely aboard this ark, it just hits too close to home for him. Barely a thousand years, and already she is testing them, punishing them in ways, in which he could have agreed on for those who deserved it, but not the innocent ones caught in the middle. And truly, innocent humans have been caught in the middle. He saved a few, hid them on Noah’s ark and kept them hidden beneath a glamour spell, as if he was just a third serpent hiding aboard, having already brought about their young, before whisking them off once the waters have receded.

But what to do now, he wonders? He may have saved them, but there is no one to take care of them, no adult. He should have saved at least one adult, he thinks as he looks around. He doesn’t dare bring them to Noah’s people, who knows how they’ll react to seeing children who should have been swept away by the Flood? Children whose lives had well and truly been rejected by the Almighty? Bringing them to the residents of the ark will surely just make his whole effort moot, now won’t it? The children tug at his hands, tired, scared and hungry, and Crawly can’t do much for them that day. Instead, he waits until the sky grows darker and wraps them all in the few blankets he nabbed with him on the way out of hiding, and sings.

The humans have come up with several songs during the last three thousand years. Crawly has been sneaking about, picking up several songs he can sing to himself which won’t cause him harm. He’s quite happy about it, not having to go days at a time healing his tongue for each time he sings to himself, and he has learned his fair share of lullabies by now.

So he lulls the humans to sleep with his voice, ensures that they will sleep and have good dreams, while he slithers off in snake form and steals some food from the ark. He keeps on doing that, until the animals have been properly released and he can hunt and teach the children how to hunt and take care of themselves. He sings every night, brings them some semblance of peace at least during the dark hours, until dawn. He stays with them for a few years, before he leaves, sees if they can take care of themselves, and they do. They do so wonderfully, but he still keeps himself close by. Because he did not go through that hassle of saving those children only to have them do something stupid to endanger themselves.

_Like searching for and showing themselves to the people who had lived on the ark!_

He keeps in snake form, slithers as close as he can, ready to leap out and take a swing at Noah’s growing family should they make one false move, but the angel is there, and it goes well. The children are accepted into the new tribe, and their lives moves on.

And so does Crawly.

He finds himself back in the area around three or four decades later and comes across an old woman he finds somewhat familiar, except the fact that he’s not been there for quite some time, but the woman remembers him. She grabs a hold of him, eyes wide.

“You used to sing me lullabies.” She says, and he realizes she is one of the children he saved. “You have not aged a day.” It is quite obvious that she can’t quite believe her eyes, yet here he stands, and even if she has grown older, her eyes aren’t betraying her. He is here, in front of her, and she looks at him like he is something out of this world, and she is right.

“Demons tend not to.” He regrets his snappish tone, and his words, but she simply smiles and tugs him along, as if he isn’t an infernal creature who walks the earth to tempt humans to sin, but rather an old friend she has missed dearly.

“Won’t you sing me another song then, demon? I have missed your voice.” So he sings for her again, because he likes it, he likes being told they enjoy his voice, he takes pride in being able to catch the human’s attention by singing but without using any demonic powers. The angel is long gone, Crawly realizes, so he sings without abandon. On his third day after his return, he sings to the old human woman a lullaby she remembers from her youth, from when she was young and the world was Flooded, from when he plucked her up from the waters and carried her along with several others to safety, to warmth and life.

She doesn’t rise again the next day.

No one blames the demon for it, incredibly enough. Her children and grandchildren say they have been waiting for it, and that he gave her a peaceful passing. He’s not sure he likes the thought but feels a slight relief of not being run out and chased by angry humans with sharp weapons. He doesn’t stay for much longer though and doesn’t return to any big settlements before one of the bigger events ever recorded in history happens again.


	3. Globe Theatre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Crowley doesn't sleep, he hums

He sings mostly to himself, and sometimes for humans. He enjoys singing for the humans. In Hell they would spit on his voice, in Heaven they will never recognize him having such a voice, but the humans, they enjoy it. This is also how he finds himself standing on the scene of the theatre. He doesn’t go there during the day, not when Aziraphale might find him. The last thing he needs is the angel commenting and telling him his voice isn’t as pretty as he might believe, that the voices in Heaven are truly remarkable and that the demon can only ever hope to-

Crowley shakes his head.

Aziraphale isn’t anything like that. The demon knows him well enough by now. But he still only sings in the cover of night. He almost misses the times when the humans were more spread out, in tiny little encampments where there were many days ride until you found the next. It felt more intimate then, a little more sacred, to sing to them. It had been… it felt like it had meant something back then. Now the humans are so different, Crowley thinks, as he fiddles with his glasses in his hands and hums. So set in their ways, seeing the world in black and white like angels and demons do. No grey zones. It is so utterly foolish, he thinks, as the doors to the theatre suddenly opens and he looks up, eyes glowing in the dark and catching the attention of-

Crowley groans.

William bloody Shakespeare. Of all the humans to come wandering in here, though Crowley realizes he shouldn’t be. The man is always lurking about the theatre, apparently during the night as well as day. Crowley has promised to make Hamlet a success before Aziraphale returns from Edinburgh. He hasn’t begun on that yet, but it’ll be easy enough, he reckons, once he puts his mind to it. Being found by the man who wrote the play isn’t exactly on Crowley’s list of deeds for the day. The man also seems quite perturbed by the yellow, glowing eyes. Or perhaps he is just surprised by the fact that there is someone else there, who knows?

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Oh how utterly polite he is. As annoying as he had been when he and Aziraphale had been discussing the Arrangement. What kind of playwright stops his play in the middle of it being performed to tell the audience to act, well, like audience?

“Are you… an actor?” The human asks carefully, though he should know that Crowley isn’t, truly, considering that the man probably knows every actor in the theatre by now.

“No.” Crowley says curtly, not in a mood to chat with the man.

“An artist in general?” But of course he won’t leave the demon alone so easily, would he?

“No.” He repeats, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards.

“No, you were the gentleman here earlier today.” Truly, Crowley should have just stayed in his home and slept in his bed. He would have been better off for it, truly. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with an annoying script writer. Crowley admits to enjoying Shakespeare’s funny bits, but the gloomy ones, oof they’re hard to watch. Why the man can’t just keep to this one genre, Crowley will never understand.

“Were you singing just now?”

“So what if I was?” Crowley asks, moving his glasses back up to cover his eyes. Shakespeare watches him as he jumps off the stage and makes to saunter by him and out.

“It was pretty, breath-taking, truly. Should you wish to share that with others, the stage will be all yours.” That almost gives the demon cause to pause, because even if humans have always been captivated by his singing, saying they liked his voice, no one’s ever told him they find it breath-taking. He barely gives the human a nod before exiting the theatre.

If only the angel would ever think the same, should Crowley ever dare sing for him.


	4. 1920

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here she finds herself

Crowley is not standing on a stage in a flapper dress, carefully manicured fingers and make-up, hundreds of years later (319 years, to be exact), just because William Shakespeare ever made him think of it, no sir. It’s more like a way to pass time, now that he and the angel have had a falling out. Crowley’s done his jobs, each and every one of them, without ever encountering the angel since that day in the park fifty- Crowley is _not_ counting. He’s been sleeping for a long time, waking up for a quick temptation though he’s kept himself awake because truly, this, oh this era he can enjoy.

Well, she can enjoy it.

Certainly the men in the fancy clubs do. They do so enjoy her singing. Crowley has decided she’ll keep around for some time, sing a little, enjoy herself a little, then go back to sleep for another decade or two. Singing isn’t just an artform anymore, it is now entertainment in all kinds of establishments. Things have truly changed while Crowley was asleep, but she doesn’t mind it too much. It’s not like it has become _worse_. Crowley truly doesn’t believe it can become any worse than it was when he fell asleep.

Crowley enjoys this, she truly does. Because even though she knows and senses each and every dark thought that fills the establishment as she sings to a live band behind her, if she sings and just focuses on singing, then she can block them out. She’s aware they are out there, but she doesn’t pick up on the exact words, and for a moment, Crowley can ignore what she is. So she just sings, and sings, until her voice should have been hoarse had she been a mortal, until her throat should have hurt and given up on her.

Crowley quickly becomes the main attraction for the next few weeks. The angel isn’t here to harp on her, so she makes the best out of it. When she gets her orders from Down Below, she executes them without even thinking about searching for the angel to see if their tasks align in any way. She’s beyond that now, she thinks. The angel’s exaggerated reaction to Crowley asking for holy water as insurance should they get found out is still making Crowley hiss in anger.

For how long have they known each other? For how long have they met up, shared drinks and food and conversation and done each other’s blessings and temptations? Also, the way the angel seemed so holier-than-thou when he, in an almost prideful way, said that _he _was still an angel while Crowley is a Fallen… Dangerous thing that, being prideful, isn’t it? Perhaps not anymore. Crowley is well aware that no other angel has fallen out of grace since the first fall. Crowley is also still well aware of the painful dive she had taken when it happened. The angels in Heaven are much worse now than the Fallen were when they were tossed out, who is truly in the right here? At least Crowley will never claim to be anything but what she is. She is selfish, bad, prideful, never righteous, good or selfless. Because Crowley is a demon, and demons are bad, _bad _creatures.

But Crowley’s voice will never be used for anything but her own selfish reasons. She will never sing for the sake of fulfilling a temptation for Hell, never. She decided that quite early on, to nurse and care for this tiny little piece of her that is left of her from her time in Heaven, when she was an angel who hung the stars in the sky.

Best not to dwell on those memories, Crowley thinks as she finishes her song and signals that she needs a break. Not really, she doesn’t grow tired like mortals do, but it’s suddenly a bit hard to sing without feeling, well, overtaken by the sudden onslaught of negative emotions. Not that she doesn’t feel them often, being a demon and all, but they hit a bit too close to home right now. People don’t come here to hear pain, they come here for the soft, almost purring voice of her while enjoying a good drink, or three. Crowley knows she’s damn good (uh, at least damned) at what she does, but she’ll not have a human come up and going mindlessly about ways she can improve, despite the fact that she is a thousand times better at anything they can ever do.

And lo and behold, as she finally gets the drink she ordered herself at the bar, a man moves to stand beside her seat. She has half a mind to tilt her glasses enough that he can see her eyes, that usually sends human running if she can’t be bothered with their presence, but he doesn’t take a seat, nor does the man order her a new drink. She never understood that, why men orders women drinks when they have yet to finish the one they already have in hand.

“Are you alright?” She does not expect that question, and actually turns to look at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You looked so sad when you sang.” And it is too much, absolutely too much! A single human’s words have Crowley’s walls, so worn down after thousands of years of existence, thousands of years of denial and self-rejection, crack and crumble down, and the demon finds herself hastily exiting the club as she fiercely fights to keep back the tears stinging her eyes.

No, she is not okay. She hasn’t been for the longest time. And now she is alone, too.


	5. Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good job, buddy, saved your angel and bombed a church, good for you

Crowley is horribly reminded of the fourteenth century. That had been an absolutely terrible century, if he does say so himself. Got him a heap of commendations he did not want, but oh well. What he had hated the most about the whole century was the death and misery, how utterly terrible it was to watch Famine and Pestilence prance around like kings. Things have gotten better though, humans got good at healing and taking care of each other, somewhat, and people lived a bit longer as long as they had the money for it. But then War just had to come and fuck shit up too, didn’t she? Crowley isn’t as much finding the humans interesting as he does so enjoy their inventions, but children… he likes the children.

As much as a demon can like anything.

So he had gone around, helping children find a safe place to hide during the bomb-raids, as safe as could be at least, because there truly are a lot of orphans running about with nowhere to call home. Crowley thinks that the kids should all have stuck to the places they were sent on the country-side, despite knowing that not all of those homes were kind to the children they accepted. At least then they would have been safe from being buried in burning rubble. This is what he thinks as he stares at the remains of what was once a small orphanage in East End. He truly is a fool, he was so intent on saving the angel, who is finally talking to him again, that he only intervened with one out of the three bombers. One did bomb the church they were in, but the other two, oh they went about as they had planned.

If he closes his eyes and imagines real hard, he can almost hear the voices of the children who had resided there.

“_Hello Mr. Crowley!” _

“_Crow-man!” _

_“Did you bring food today?” _

_“Your nose is weird, like a bird!” _

_“That’s not a nice thing to say, Sara!” _

But when he opens his eyes again, all he sees is the rubble. He should have just… He should have just used a whole lot of power and rerouted all three bombers. And the report to Hell would have been; Found a whole lot of resistance soldiers hiding in a church with a whole lot of artillery. Wiped them out for you, no need to thank me.

But no. That didn’t happen. Instead he got the three half-witted nazi spies and saved Aziraphale, but hey, the evillest act of his is not giving the other two bombers a detour as well. He can only imagine the commendation he’ll get for this.

“_Crowley, by Satan Crowley, bombing an orphanage? Good job, really great work there, bud!” _He doesn’t want to hear it, and if he gets a note which even starts with a commendation, he will burn it through, even if there is a job relayed with it as well. He’ll take whatever punishment they’ll give him if he does, but right now he can’t even be bothered to care. He finds it unfair. The humans blame every bad little thing that happens on him, every little sickness, every little death, every little unhinged human who decides to kill or hurt and abuse, now that is the work of evil, of the demons who walk amongst us. Crowley is the only demon up here on earth, walking amongst humans, and despite his incredible imagination, he’s never once been able to dream up all the horrible things the humans have done to themselves.

Yet they never find it in themselves to take responsibility for their actions. Everything good that happens, that is them with a little guidance from God. Everything bad that happens, oh that is Crowley, always Crowley. It’s not like they decide themselves to cause mass genocide, _is it?_

But not this time. Crowley may be a demon, a tempter spreading dissent and evil, but nothing like this. He won’t claim responsibility for this. So he wanders into the ruins of the orphanage, his sharp nose catching the sharp sent of burned flesh and he resists the urge to vomit, because his body doesn’t actually need to do so. He’s been up here for too long, hasn’t he? He wonders so many times.

But he finds himself in the middle of the smoking rubble and sings, one of Her hymns, so holy and pure and good that it burns him, just like it did when he sat atop the wall of the garden Eden, but he doesn’t stop. He sings until the break of dawn, a small prayer that the souls will find themselves in a better place than this hellhole they call earth.

And when Aziraphale tries calling him the next day, Crowley can’t answer because his tongue is well and truly gone for days.


	6. Like A Big Kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock tries to explain how nice nanny's voice is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that it was a lot of angst, so here, have something less angsty

Nanny Ashtoreth sings to Warlock every night, from the day she began working as his nanny, until they leave right before his eleventh birthday. Warlock likes it when his nanny sings to him, it helps him fall asleep easier, and never once when she has gifted him with a lullaby, however weird they are, does he have bad dreams. Her voice is nice, sometimes sounding like a kitten purring when it’s pleased, but also deep and a bit rough. But it’s nice. He tells Brother Francis about it one day, at the age of six.

“Nanny has a nice voice?” Brother Francis looks sceptical, and Warlock hurries to nod.

“Yes!” He exclaims. “She sounds like a kitten, but a big kitten! When it’s happy!” Brother Francis still looks sceptical, but also curious, and asks Warlock more about nanny’s voice and the boy describes it as well as he can with his ever-growing vocabulary. What bothers Warlock is that no matter how much he tries to explain how well his nanny sings, it seems that Brother Francis doesn’t believe him, and it frustrates the child to no end. It gets to the point that the boy shouts at the man before running away in tears.

“Oh dear.”

Not even an hour later does the demon storm down into the garden. The angel is warned by the way the roses he’s working on suddenly start trembling terribly, oozing fear and terror the moment the creature grows near.

_“Oh dear.” _He mutters quietly as he hears her footsteps grow closer. He sits back and drops his tools, looking up at a near on snarling demon.

“What _are _you doing?” Nanny Ashtoreth snaps angrily, hands on her hips as she, most likely, glares daggers at him from behind her dark glasses. The resolute downturn of her lips certainly makes it seem so, and the way she cocks her hip to the side, right foot tapping impatiently into the grass, arms crossed tightly over her chest… Oh yes, he has a very irate demon in front of him, the angel realizes.

“Oh, well, I-“

“The boy came running to me in tears, you stupid angel! What were you doing?” And to be admonished by a demon about the emotions of a child, of a child’s hurt feelings, well it truly is almost laughable, isn’t it? As an angel, the roles should have been reversed, shouldn’t they? But then again, Crowley has always been better with children than Aziraphale is, because he’s actually looked at them as individuals. Aziraphale saw tiny humans, Crowley saw innocents who had yet to do anything to deserve anything painful. Why Crowley had ever found himself soft for the children Aziraphale has never questioned. He’s been curious, of course, but he’s never asked, because he knows Crowley will clam up and disappear off to who knows where for a decade of two if he does. He can’t do that now, but he will find a way to avoid Aziraphale even when they’re both on the same grounds, so the angel keeps his questions to himself.

“Well, he tried to explain something I myself has never experienced, and as I haven’t experienced it, and I have been on this planet for six thousand years, I found it a bit hard to believe. But you’re right, I should have believed him. Warlock may be the anti-christ, but he’s honest, like all children. I will apologize once he has calmed down.” The demon regards him behind his coloured lenses, arms still tight over her chest, but her scowl is gradually fading into a frown, so Aziraphale takes that as a small victory. At least the demon isn’t furious with him anymore.

“What did Warlock say?” Truly, Crowley is quite curious, because in their time on earth, these last six thousand years, the demon would have thought the angel would have experienced almost everything by now. What is it that the angel have yet to experience here?

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale looks up at the demon dressed as a nanny, before he looks down and grabs his tools, continuing to do his work. Crowley raises a brow because that is rather unusual. Aziraphale mostly takes to the polite way of discarding his tools and getting to his feet, pulling his hat off, not turning away and trying to hide behind his work. Well, not as Brother Francis at least.

“It’s nothing, er, rather, I don’t want to tell you if Warlock didn’t.” Now, that is what Aziraphale is telling Crowley. The truth is that if Aziraphale actually tells Crowley, he is quite certain the demon will snap at him, deny it all, and march away in a rather foul mood. Not, perhaps, because the anti-christ might be wrong, but because Crowley might actually be a bit offended, even _hurt_, by the fact that the angel doesn’t believe he can sing. Crowley regards him for a few moments more, before huffing and turning on her heel, only to stop. The rose-bush had ceased its trembling when it realized the demon was furious with the angel, and not it, but suddenly she looms over them, growls threateningly, and it shivers terribly, before the demon stalks away. Aziraphale sits back, staring after the demon.

“Oh dear…”


	7. In a Bookshop in Soho, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just something Aziraphale noticed after Armaggedidn't. He wishes he had come across it earlier

This is something Aziraphale has been noticing more and more of lately. After the Armagedidn’t, Crowley seem a lot more at ease with himself. He’s always appeared to be quite calm, never worried about the surveillance Hell might have put on him, but now that there is no more hiding which side he is on, which is _theirs_, he actually _is_ pretty, as the teenagers these days say, chill.

Very chill. Much chill.

Frequently, the angel sometimes hears the redhead _hum_, and Aziraphale must admit that it is quite the pleasant sound, truly. The demon has always had a pleasant voice, and of course he has to have a nice voice, or else temptations wouldn’t go all that well, would they? He’s watched the demon whisper countless suggestions into the ears of human over the last six thousand years they’ve been on the planet, though of course, none of those temptations have ever been as vile as the machinations humanity itself turns onto its own kind.

Still, Aziraphale quite likes the humming, so he doesn’t comment on it. He knows Crowley well enough by now. If he says he thinks it’s nice to listen to, Crowley will clam up and never hum around him ever again, even if neither of them are on Heaven or Hell’s side anymore. Crowley is still very much a demon, and Aziraphale is still very much an angel. Yet, the angel also notices that he doesn’t have to thread on egg-shells around certain topics anymore either, so perhaps he can test his luck? As Crowley’s humming in the backroom trails off and disappears, and the silent air is nearly stifling, Aziraphale decides he best not.

So that is how it develops. Crowley hums when they take walks to St. James’ park to feed the ducks, frozen peas because bread isn’t actually good for ducks, apparently, he hums when he’s dozing off on one of Aziraphale’s many settees in the bookshop, even when they’re driving. It’s a bit harder to hear when they’re in the car, because the Bentley is always playing some music in the background which almost drowns out Crowley’s voice. Almost.

It’s only when Aziraphale returns from the bakery just down the corner that he does actually hear Crowley _sing._ The demon has probably just sauntered straight inside Aziraphale’s bookshop despite the angel not being in, and while waiting he has found ways to entertain himself. And what Aziraphale hears makes his heart stop beating for a few seconds, not that it truly needs to beat in the first place, but you get the picture. It’s a low sound, really, but his sharp angel hearing catches up on it the moment he begins opening the door to his shop. Unconsciously he miracles the bell quiet, as he enters, and strains his hearing to better hear it.

Crowley’s voice is quiet, but confident, carrying throughout the shop in a, oh what word aptly describes it? Oh yes, a purr, like a-

And suddenly Aziraphale remembers young Warlock in the garden, trying to explain to him how his nanny’s voice sounded like when she sang him to sleep in the evenings. Purring, like that of a kitten, but a big one! Oh young Warlock had been very sincere with him. He truly did deserve the apology Brother Francis had given him. Oh, well, he had deserved it anyway, because Aziraphale had behaved poorly when the young child had just wanted to tell him about something he enjoyed immensely. And Aziraphale can understand now, why the boy was so excited about it. Aziraphale would have loved to just stand there and listen, but surely Crowley will be able to sense his presence soon, and it is awfully impolite to eavesdrop, so the angel heads further in and finds the demon reclined on the couch in the back. Now that he is in clear sight should the demon just turn his head a little bit, it’s not rude, is it? Aziraphale thinks not, so he just stands there and waits for Crowley to notice him.

A few moments later the demon turns his head, and nearly chokes on his words when he sees the angel standing there. He stammers and stutters and swallows and looks so utterly uncomfortable that the angel can’t help but take pity on him.

“Oh don’t stop on my account, my dear.” He says as he walks past the demon and up to the counter, setting the water to boil as he places the pastries he’s brought with him onto a plate, depositing said plate on the table in front of the demon.

“Your voice is quite lovely.” He says sincerely and the demon flushes a deep red, turning his head away.

“I must say, I have never heard anything quite like it.” The angel says absentmindedly as he finds the tea-cups in the cupboard, and this catches the demon’s attention. Carefully, quietly and so utterly fragile, his voice sounds as he asks;

“Not even in Heaven?” And the lack of confidence in Crowley’s voice as he asked Aziraphale, makes the angel pause and turn around, seeing that the demon is quite nervous, no, almost _scared_ is the more correct word to use here. And he finds it wrong that his demon should feel this way. So he slaps a smile on his face and tells his demon sincerely;

“No, not even in Heaven. Not anywhere.” And Crowley, although hesitantly, allows a small wobbly smile onto his face. And even though it doesn’t happen immediately as Aziraphale turns back to the kettle, before he has filled two cups with tea, Crowley has begun to quietly sing again. Aziraphale hopes to hear more of this for the rest of their existence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, trying to keep it lighthearted and nice, how did I do?


End file.
